


Once an addict, always an addict

by Spockykins



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Showers, Someone give Bucky a hug, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spockykins/pseuds/Spockykins
Summary: Bucky has been clean for over a year. That is, until Brock shows up to the library.





	Once an addict, always an addict

It had been a long few years. Bucky was finally getting back into the swing of things after his bender, as Bucky liked to call it, or his “overdose that shouldn’t be taken so lightly, I mean come on, Bucky, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

It wasn’t like Bucky was ashamed, per say. It was more that he felt like a fucking jackass for being so selfish about it. He’d gone to rehab and whatever to fix his problem and it’d kept him clean for almost a year. 

Problem was, “times are tough” and whatnot. Bucky was unemployed. He wasn’t getting paid unemployment for most of the time, since there was still coke in his system. But he was getting paid again, which meant that Steve could be home more, which meant that Bucky was feeling better. 

He was still unemployed, though, and since Steve was working full days and there was only so many jobs to apply for and NA meetings for him to attend, Bucky was bored as shit. Crocheting didn’t work, like his sponsor suggested. Writing was boring and for losers, he didn’t have enough money for a piano or a musical instrument. Cigarettes were expensive and gross, which was apparently so much different than cocaine. Regardless, there was nothing to do except read. 

But again, Steve and Bucky weren’t made of money. So the library was the current number one spot. He’d spend hours upon hours at the library. He met Kathy, the librarian, there, now she was one of his only friends, other than Nat. 

When he walked in after his… bender. Bucky knew he was pretty, but god he looked like such shit. He was about 20 pounds lighter from going cold turkey, the shitty rehab food, the loss of appetite… Kathy didn’t say a goddamned word. Bucky hadn’t been in this library for months, but the second he walked in the door, Kathy smiled at him, reached behind her, and held out the book Bucky had put on hold. 

Bucky took the book and handed her the card. The silent interaction gave him his first semblance of normalcy since he’d been back. Steve had been breathing up his neck about “are you okay?” and “do you have the cravings still?” and “how can I help?” Kathy didn’t try any of that. 

Bucky walked to his usual seat, just out of view, positioned in the corner, and cried like an idiot. 

So yeah, the library was usually a good place to be. 

Today felt different, though. Bucky was sitting as his usual table behind the history section. He heard voices, like a group of kids coming in. It looked like a some teens trying to do a project, but the neighborhood this library was in usually meant that he was alone. 

The intrusion on his usually private personal space definitely wasn’t starting to make his skin itch with anxiety. He tried not to focus on the sudden commotion, hyper fixating on the Shakespeare he was trying to train his brain to understand. 

_Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,_

_That struts and frets his hour upon the stage._

A kid is loudly proclaiming that if he doesn’t get an A on this project, his mom is going to kick his ass. 

_And then is heard no more. It is a tale-_

Their feet thump upstairs. They’re still yelling and causing a commotion. Kathy was a great woman, but she really had to work on her librarian shushing skills. 

_Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,_

Christ, if they were already upstairs, why did Bucky’s hair stand upright on the back of his neck? He heard a few steps approach his hovel behind the shelves. He turned to see who was coming. 

_Signifying nothing._

Fuck. Brock, his old dealer. He had a stupid, smug smile on his face. Bucky hadn’t had cocaine in a fucking year. Brock used to meet him here to sell. Eventually, the library up the road from his apartment became too far for Bucky to walk, so Brock just came to his house. 

That’s not what pissed Steve off the most. What pissed Steve off the most was that Bucky wanted to chase away shitty feelings with drugs, instead talking to the counselor that Steve thought he was going to. But god, when Bucky told him Brock had been in his home, on his bed, had petted Bucky’s hair and helped him inject the cocaine when he was too fucked up to do it himself… 

He’d never seen Steve so angry in his life. Not with Bucky, but it was hard to convince Bucky otherwise. Steve had to leave the house to run or punch or scream out the rage, that’s how bad it had been. 

But here Brock was. In the flesh and smirking his smile, the one Bucky had seen so many times before, whether Brock was there or not. Now, suddenly, Bucky was 22 again, sitting here and staring at Brock like he was his owner, and Bucky really wanted the new dog toy he got him. 

Brock didn’t say anything for a few seconds, making himself comfortable. This made Bucky squirm in his seat, but he was adamant to stay strong vocally, as much as he could. 

“Oh I suppose I should’ve asked. Is this seat taken?” Brock touches Bucky’s book and spins it so he can read it. “Shakespeare, huh? Trying to get smart, or something?” 

Bucky cleared his throat, trying to take the book back. Brock didn’t let him, and Bucky didn’t push for it. “What do you want, Brock?” 

Brock stared at him, then laughed. “It isn’t what I want, Bucky. It’s what you want.” 

Bucky licked his lips subconsciously, trying really hard not to think about how close he was to feeling so good again. “I don’t do that, anymore. Haven’t in a year.” 

“Listen, Bucky. You’re a smart man. Look at you, reading Shakespeare and shit.” His expression shifts to something darker. Bucky knew Brock wanted him. Hell, Bucky had done some shameful shit to get coke when money was tight. But the look in his eyes right now was more malicious than seductive. This asshole knew what he was saying. 

Brock reached out and covered his hand with his own. “But, my sweet boy. Addicts are addicts. They can go on spells of being clean. But folks like you and me, who have actual reason to take this shit? To forget all the horrible things we’ve done, that we’ve had done for us? We are the ones who come back.” 

Bucky might have been sick. Brock flipped his hand over and pressed a hot kiss to the back of his hand. He pressed a small bag into Bucky’s hand. His hand was still pressed to Brock’s lips. Their eyes were locked. Brock pulled away, stood, and walked away. 

Bucky didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. The bag was in his hand.

It’s so fucking heavy. It couldn’t weigh more than a gram, but it was pinning Bucky’s arm to the table. Kathy approached, apparently, as she was apparently talking.  
“-eed anything?” Bucky finally looked up. He probably looked insane. 

“No, sorry Kathy. Just… thinking.” 

She probably knew some of what his background looked like, especially based on some help she had given him with research on mental illnesses. She knew what unstable looked like. She worked in a public library just outside of New York City. 

She smiled at him sympathetically. “Let me know if you need anything. We also have the phone behind the desk. You know where it is. Use it if you need, James. I’m serious.” She walked away, leaving Bucky to his turmoil. 

“Thanks.” He replied too late. 

In the end, he shoved everything into his bag, drugs included, and booked it home. Steve had his night class to teach today, which meant he wouldn’t be home for a few hours. He had a few hours to get home and figure out what the fuck he was doing with the heaviest gram of coke on the face of the earth.

It wasn’t too long to walk and it was fucking cold outside. He forgot his coat at the library, but it didn’t matter. He needed the bite of icey air to make him feel alive.  
He was suddenly at the apartment, apparently blacking out for the rest of the walk home. He threw his bag and sat on the couch, staring at it. His leg was bouncing to release energy. He shut his eyes and tried to do those stupid fucking breathing exercises that the therapist told him to try when he felt like an anxious piece of shit.  
They were stupid, and it wasn’t working. He walked to his bag and carried it to their room. Sometimes, Steve would check his old hiding spots to make sure he wasn’t going on a bender again. But Bucky wasn’t going to _do_ the coke, so hiding it from Steve would be different. He just… has it. 

He walked to his nightstand and taped it to the underside. No one would ever see, unless they flipped the piece of furniture upside down.  
So there it stayed, when Steve got home, and for the next three weeks. 

The knowledge that he had coke at his disposal at anytime and the only person who knew wanted him to slip was exhilarating and terrifying. He could start using again, start feeling good and energized again… but Steve would be devastated. He wouldn’t leave, not even if Bucky wanted him to. But god, Steve didn’t deserve that. 

Just thinking about using again made Bucky sick, both mentally and physically. 

The voice started to echo in his head again. Brock’s stupid, cocky voice. 

Addicts are addicts. 

Folks like you and me. 

We are the ones who come back. 

_We are the ones who come back._

Bucky found himself on his hands and knees in front of his nightstand before he could think about what he was doing. He grabbed the coke from the bag and half-ran to the bathroom. He stumbled some in his hastiness, but it didn’t fucking matter. 

He collapsed to the ground and grabbed the bag. He shoved his finger into the bag, collecting some of the white powder onto it, and inhaled deeply. The familiar burn of a foreign substance entering his nose was welcome, but Bucky’s mind immediately wandered to Steve. 

He stood and stared at himself in the mirror. His hands started shaking. Not from the drugs; they took a few minutes to kick in. He was so fucking selfish. Just like that night almost a year ago, and a bunch of the times after that. He stared at the mostly full baggy and bent over, shoving it into his pocket. 

He grabbed his phone and his wallet and speed-walked out the door. He did coke again. After well over a year of being clean, he went and fucked it up. Steve didn’t have to see that. 

Bucky started to feel the familiar warmth flood his senses. He made it out the door, walking a little too briskly. He faintly feels himself bumping into someone and apologizing. That’s part of what makes coke so invigorating. Senses heightened where it mattered, dulled where it didn’t. 

Time passed too quickly before he was sober again. Bucky was sitting on the ground in an alley. He was staring at a brick wall. He could faintly feel himself crying, but god he was so fucking exhausted. Coming down was always the worst part. The energy that you started to get used to was reduced to what you had without the coke.

He knew he fucked up. He knew he let Steve down, he knew that all of his hard work was for nothing, and he knew that Brock fucking won. After all that he’d put Steve through, he’d have to do it again. 

He felt his phone buzz. This was the first time he’d registered it buzzing, but he somehow knew that this wasn’t the first call he’d missed. He reached into his pocket to check his phone. Along with it, he pulled out the now almost empty bag of coke. 

He dropped his phone in shock at stared at it, a new batch of tears starting to surface. He’d used more than once, and he fucking forgot. How many times had he used? What fucking time was it? 

As if to answer his question, he had another call from Steve light up his phone. It was almost 10. He’d left the house at 5. Steve got home around 5:30. 

Christ, he was so selfish. 

Bucky hesitantly reached for the phone and answered it, but didn’t say anything. He hoped that his trembling breath wasn’t too audible. 

Steve didn’t say anything for a minute. Bucky could almost hear all optimistic thoughts get thrown from Steve’s head. 

“Bucky?” 

Bucky nodded, then remembered Steve couldn’t see him. His voice cracked when he tried to talk. He was so thirsty. “Yeah?” 

Steve, again, didn’t answer right away. He sighed deeply. “Did you?”

Bucky bit back a sob, hitting his head against the brick wall behind him hard. “I’m so sorry Steve.” 

There was rustling on the other line. 

“Where are you?” 

Bucky started to panic. “Steve, wait, no you don’t have to-”

“Stop.” Steve had on the voice he’d used when Bucky was getting stubborn and not trying to better himself. He’d gotten really mopey that he “wasn’t worth the effort” or “was only holding Steve back,” which was true, but it pissed Steve off to hear Bucky say it. Bucky had always hated how little he felt when Steve used that tone, like he was a kid who wasn’t in control. Although, Bucky supposed he was. 

Steve had been talking. “Bucky Barnes. Where are you?” 

Bucky had forgotten he’d been crying. He sniffled and looked up at the sky. “I’m sittin’ on the ground.” 

Steve’s voice softened some. His heart-breaking was almost audible. “Where, Buck? I’m gonna come get you.” 

“You shouldn’t. I’m only gonna keep… fucking this whole thing up.” 

Steve stopped rustling around. “What are you talking about?” 

“Clean for a year and outta the blue I wanna use again. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault. It was mine. I wanted to use and I did, now I’m gonna fall asleep in an alley.” 

“Bucky, for the love of god, tell me where you are.” 

“I’m in an alley by the… Starbucks, I think.” He turned his head to the side to press his cheek against the cold, filthy brick.

There was the sound of a door closing. He felt his stomach drop.

“I want to die, Steve.” 

“What the hell are you talking about? You fucked up this once, we can get you on track again. Sometimes you want to start using again for no reason, then go and buy it. It’s okay.” 

“I’ve had this bag for months. I was keeping it in our bedroom.” 

There’s the sound of a car door slamming. “What are you talking about?” 

Bucky’s words are starting to slur together. “I hid it in our room. I’ve been planning this. I’m a piece of trash, Steve. Got this whole life with you bein’ perfect like you are and I’m just… not good at all…” 

His eyes slipped shut, his head swimming in molasses. It was so fucking hard to stay awake. 

“Shut up. I love you, idiot, and I’m with ya ‘til the end of the line.” 

His mouth was moving without his permission. “Tha’s a mistake.” 

He can faintly hear Steve talking, then shouting. The phone hit the pavement with a dull clatter and Bucky slumped over after it. 

Bucky stirred some when someone picked him up. He felt his vocal cords vibrate in a groan. The world was spinning and dark, but Bucky didn’t have the energy to open his eyes. He could be being abducted by a stranger, and he’d have no idea. 

He heard a familiar voice. The words were too fast for Bucky to really pick up on them, but the tone made him feel safe. He tried to mumble an apology, but was shushed.  
He didn’t really hear much else. He felt himself being placed in a seat. Christ, it was so cold. He felt himself trembling and felt some sweat bead on his forehead, but other than that, everything was blissfully muted. 

A door shut, another opened, then they were moving. 

The world faded to black again, this mind soothed by the bumpy car ride. 

Bucky woke up in their bed, alone. He was in just his briefs. He reeked. There was a bucket next to the bed in case he had to vomit, a water bottle, and a granola bar.  
Steve had written a little note that said “eat and drink, even if you feel sick.” 

That only made Bucky feel more shitty. His 27 year old boyfriend was taking care of him and had to baby him. How humiliating. He couldn’t function on his own.  
He picked up the water and sipped on it. If he were less experienced with this kind of hangover, he would have tried to just chug all of the water and vomited into the bucket. But he knows better know. The thirst would be cured, just slowly. 

He laid back on the bed. Steve should’ve left him there. He was useless, provided Steve with nothing, did nothing except clean and cook sometimes. Yet here he sat, with a loving and devoted boyfriend. He stared at the ceiling. 

Too many thoughts swirled around in his head. Why the fuck did Steve stay? After all the bullshit Bucky put him through, he still stayed. Every time. 

There was a soft knock at the door. Bucky looked up, hoping it was Steve. 

It was Sam, his sponsor. 

“Hey, Bucky. Can I come in?” 

Bucky felt his throat close up. He really didn’t want to cry right now. He nodded and looked away. 

Sam let himself in. He was ex-military too, honorably discharged. He got a serious arm injury that damaged his arm permanently. That’s where his own story with addiction started. 

Despite being a pretty big guy, Sam’s steps were both quiet and soothing. He had an aura about him that made him perfect for a therapist. Bucky sometimes wondered if he ever considered switching professions. 

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand over Bucky’s. “Listen, don’t talk. Okay?” He looked to Bucky for a sign of agreement. 

Bucky nodded. 

“Good. We all fuck up. I’ve fucked up… more times than I want to count.” He chuckled a little, before getting serious again. “We aren’t mad at you, Bucky. I know Steve is a little upset right now, but he’s not mad at you, and he’s not going anywhere. Neither am I.” 

At the mention of Steve, Bucky’s eyes filled with tears. He let his head fall back against the wall and he shook his head. “I fucked up everything, Sam. Again.” 

“I thought we agreed it was my turn?” He joked lightly. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s alright. But kid, you didn’t fuck anything up. You made a mistake, sure, but this mistake is fixable. This isn’t the end of the line.” 

Bucky snorted, thinking back to what Steve said. 

“Something funny?” 

“No, sorry.” 

Sam sighed and squeezed Bucky’s hand. “We love you. We are here for you, right in your corner, every step of the way.” 

He nodded. His mind was screaming that they didn’t deserve this, that he should just fuck off and die before it’s too late. Before he fucks up again and dies before fucking off or… whatever. Bucky should run away and die. 

Sam must’ve heard his thoughts, or something. “Hey, come back. What are you thinking about?”

“I feel bad for Steve.” 

Sam nodded and smiled empathetically. “It’s good that you realize what happened wasn’t a good choice. That means we can get you back on track in no time.” 

“Do I have… to go back to rehab?” 

Sam thought for a minute. “Do you think you need to go back?” 

Bucky shrugged and looked at his feet. 

“Do you want to use again right now?” 

He shook his head. No, he really didn’t want to go back. 

“Alright, then you don’t have to. We can do more NA meetings, get lunch together… whatever we need to get you back on track.” 

Bucky nodded numbly and held Sam’s hand. After all his hard work, here he was, back at square one. One tiny snort of chemicals and he lost all of the trust he’d worked so hard to gain. It was amazing how far one tiny mistake could send Bucky spiraling back. 

Sam left a bit after that, something about an AA meeting he was helping host. Bucky wasn’t really listening. He was focusing on not panicking. Normally, Steve coming home was a blessing and something that made him feel safe, but today he was dreading it. He really didn’t want to face Steve and talk about what happened. It was humiliating. 

He didn’t get out of bed and couldn’t force himself to finish the power bar. Apparently, a few hours had passed, and Steve was home. Bucky couldn’t really recall the time passing, but the clock said it did. 

Steve put down his backpack and moved about the space for a few minutes. Bucky was silent the entire time. Eventually, he heard a soft sigh, then a quiet knock on the door. 

“Hey, Buck? You awake?” 

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah.” 

Steve pushed the door open and smiled sadly at him. Bucky looked away as he felt his throat close up some again. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi Steve.” 

Steve walked over to the bed and sat beside him. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. He pulled off his shoes and laid down beside Bucky, who scooted over to make room. Steve rested his head on Bucky’s chest and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“Hey.” 

“What?” Bucky asked, scared of his potential anger.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Bucky couldn’t hold back the tears this time. He covered his face with his hands and actually sobbed for the first time in almost a year. His chest was heaving. His breaths weren’t deep enough to keep up. 

Steve sat up and looked at him. He pulled Bucky into his arms, holding him close to his chest. “Hey, hey. It’s alright. We all make mistakes, sometimes. This isn’t any different.” 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

“Would you stop with that? It’s not true. Even if it was, I would still be here. Every time. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Bucky tried to calm down. His hands moved to his hair, running his fingers through it. He hadn’t showered in almost three days. His hair was long and dirty from where he rested it on the grimey floor of the alley. 

But Steve didn’t care. He carded his fingers through Bucky’s locks like they were the finest silk. He pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and pressed his face against his cheek. 

“I’m gross.” 

Steve chuckled and hugged him a little tighter. “Yeah, a little bit. Do you wanna hop in the shower?” 

Bucky just nodded.

Steve climbed out of bed and pulled back the covers. He smiled at Bucky, then leaned down and scooped him up.  
“Hey, I can walk.” Bucky protested. 

“I know you can, but I want to carry you.” 

“Fucking corny.”  
Steve sighed proudly. “Yeah…” 

He carried Bucky all the way to the bathroom, finally settling him on his feet. Bucky hadn’t stood for a day, so he wobbled some before getting his footing. 

“Oh gosh, I have to pee.” Bucky mumbled, pulling off his briefs. 

“I would hope so. You’ve been in bed for 100 days.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Steve just snorted, turning on the water. He stripped himself and got into the water just as Bucky finished peeing. 

“You’re joining me?” 

“Yeah, I need to shower too. Figured I could rub your back.” 

“Oh, how domestic of you.” 

Steve laughed, holding out his hand to help Bucky in. “I mean, we live together. That’s pretty domestic.” 

Steve helped Bucky clean his hair and did give him the back massage, as promised. He had to get working on a project, so he left Bucky in the shower alone. Which, honestly, was a big sign of trust for him. When Steve first found out about Bucky’s problem, he’d hardly let him piss without a supervisor. 

Bucky got out of the shower only because the hot water wasn’t so hot anymore. He walked to the sink and dried his hair with the towel, shaking his head vigorously. 

When he was done, he stared at his reflection. His skin looked pale and clammy. His eyes were ringed in dark circles and were sunken in. He looked gaunt and exhausted, and he felt as awful as he looked. 

His hair was too long. He shut his eyes. The cool metal underneath him was chilling past just the skin. He felt another prick of a needle as all the senses were amplified. The world was suddenly burning. 

He thought he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear anything. All he could feel was fire, all he could see was dark, but there was no sound at all. Suddenly, there was a hand. Cold, professional, mean, rubbing through Bucky’s hair. He thought, at the time, it was supposed to be soothing. It was more to keep him grounded so he would take longer to pass out from the pain. He wasn’t sure if it worked. 

Bucky opened his eyes and stared in the mirror. He looked at the person he thought was behind him and sighed. His mind moved too fast sometimes.  
His eyes wandered to the shears on the counter. He picked them up and stared at them for a minute, flipping them in his hand. The sharpness of the blade and its reflection made him sick with unwelcome nostalgia. 

He turned the shears towards himself, raised them up, and snipped his hair. He watched it fall into the sink. He kept cutting, watching the sink slowly become covered in his hair. He looked in the mirror at his face. 

His hair was messy. His haircut job was pretty awful. In his haste, he knicked himself on the scalp a few times. His skin still was the wrong color and his eyes still looked dead, but at least his hair was his again. 

He felt a little more like himself.


End file.
